


It's more or less just a symbol

by somerandomperson



Series: Words for Inktober [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somerandomperson/pseuds/somerandomperson
Summary: Bucky hates the star on his arm and what it represents.





	It's more or less just a symbol

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 8 - Star
> 
> Some thoughts on I had on Bucky removing the star on his shoulder while in hiding, before the events of civil war.

It's a sharp sound, the scrap of metal against metal. Long sharp screech as the blade covers the metal in long strokes. Over and over again. Rhythmically back and forth. Hard strokes that wear and scour. Little flakes of paint litter the floor. Tiny shards painstakingly scraped away.

There is more paint then it seems, such a small area yet so much effort to remove.

Blood also drips down to the floor. A slow drip, drip, drip on the floor in time with the scrap and scratching of the blade. He hardly notices the pain as the blade slices into his hand. He only cares about the action. About the little red flecks of pain slowly removing themselves from his body.

It's a symbol, both one he'd proudly wear and one that was forced upon him.

It's like so much of his life a paradox, a duality that he can't escape from. Symbol of freedom; a symbol of his captivity.

He knows that it won't change anything. That a few layers of paint won't make anything better. He will still have nightmares. He will still have moments where he's not sure what memory is real and what is not. But he needs it off.

There are now little groves cutting through the metal of his arm. Scarring on the plates mirroring the scars that cover his shoulder.

He knows he has a name, he knows that it belongs to him, it feels like it belongs top him even. He saw it in the museum on his memorial. He saw it written in book after book, on websites, in pictures, on tattoos. His name written large in history. His and yet other people's too.

He had tried to paint over it. He had a free flyer from the museum, a picture of the Captain saluting. His white star stark against his blue uniform. It hadn't stayed. It had stayed on for a few weeks but soon the paint had peeled and worn away. Red peeking through. It had sent him into a depressed spiral for a while. The idea that no matter what he did the blood of his victims, his crimes would always show through. That all that he had been was burnt out of him, replaced by this machine.

It wasn't until he had been walking down the street a few days before when a child had run into the path of a truck, his arm, the thing that defined him as the asset had moved before he even knew it. Had grabbed the kid by the back of their coat and pulled them from in front of the truck.

He had backed away from the weeping parents who had tried to thank him. Slinking back into the shadows, unfamiliar and wary about the attention.

He had gone back to his room and sat down and stared at his arm. It was theirs but it was also his. Maybe accepting the duality of his state was ok. He needed to make it his. He need to reclaim it as his own.

So here he was sat on the floor, mirror propped up opposite, slowly scrapping away the layers of paint.

More flakes landed in the floor, bare metal becoming more and more exposed. There was no logical reason why, but it made him feel lighter.

Soon it was all gone. The metal of his arm exposed. Little lines and grooves where the paint had gone. Their brand in red gone. His choice, his action. He laughed a little, running his fingers over the new indents. Nothing had changed, yet something had.

He got up and grabbed a cloth mopping up the blood and paint shards and throwing them in the bin. He went to his notebook and opened a new page. He propped up his picture of the Captain and started writing.


End file.
